Tag: serial blog

Recent events at the tent have left some cracks in our present story. The local audience half-expected some pose by a bleeding Yorick. The white-walled gallery, now needs rebuilding. The Deciders have demanded more color bombs and authority, something of an aristocratic triumvirate. And so we move on, to a more noble day (?).

Considering Nobility oil

Is there a better day in this “there was a better day”, “back-in-the-day” era? The question is probably better “is there a greater day to remember?” A day when the oligarchy was noble, above all, in some auric glow of past splendor (we confuse with the present). When our superiors were Nobles, and acted with noblesse oblige.

The eagle, whether perched or on wing, searches for the weak, the inattentive, the injured, for an eagle’s sustenance. Flying here over our rivers gently flowing they have the attributes of gods; power, majesty, floating upwards without borderlands.

Eagles flying, gold burnished, the eagle abstracted to emblem, logo, or symbol posted on commerce and political ascendency. Compressed emotions to symbolic standards for those membered, who claim charts of nobility as a decantation of heroic acts; whereas the lessers died without gift of a position. Noble authority didn’t mine the gold nor form and burnish it, but they wear it and are housed in it; a world liquid in unexplored vanity, unexplored despair.

Imagining the wings and gold as attainable and usable attributes; some emotive artificers seek to mimic the gods in the pursuit of sovereignty. Presumably they bequest a benediction on those in subservience, on the borderlands of obscurity and living remembrance. And yet seeking supremacy is not the Holy Grail, certainly not the one from which the Blood of the Lamb pours.

Aha Young Men oil

A fool was not a Noble, but many who claim a noble’s elite rights are fools, and so even here where winter leaves no fragrance, fresh or rotted, young men prefer the artifice of noble folly.

It is winter here on the prairie where we are wrapped in wind and whipping canvas, the former circus tent, now home to the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture. The winter light is brightening a bit, a week plus after the early dismissal of the sun. Back then the world came to the end of its’ wobble, then started over again. Now, a lengthening winter sun is not the same thing as a warmer sun, only a more promising sun, it is still cold.

Tent shelter in winter…a bit chilly, no insulation. Swirling snow (although very lovely) blows in, hot air goes to the top, while the people at the bottom cuddle lit emotion bombs, these artistics crunch closer and closer, erratic opinions drafted in chilled tensions find a topic. The more verbally endowed articulators (poetic/prosey types) anxious for even this bit of fame, begin to declaim on…,,,…comas.

Comas, those old-school upside-down bombs, incomprehensibly-absolutist little dictatorial-divisive-connections interspersing the written as directions, or, governance to – how we speak, or how we mean – something. Instincts re-form the vocalizers; visceral high school psyches face rational-comma subgroups, and concurrently, the threats of little emotion bombs.

Older attendees proffer commas as the output of medieval theological speculation, where a threesome of ideas becomes- a point: to whit, and therefore, – uh, ah, oh, – commas; or something like that. Ergo, comma tyrants claw with religious tenacity as arguments develop. The noise is vibrated aloft into the winds.

While the big comma, winter wind, forms a grip on outdoor activities, arguing anarchists and grammar-lords fill time inside. Smoking enfant terribles enjoy the separation from the grammarians more than the nicotine, banished, like back-in-the-day.d

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On an official note: a new Deciders Quorum has been appointed.

Due to rules thy are first formally presented by their hobby-horse head personae, to whit…

Better to be discussed next Saturday, disagreements already exist over new authorities, and, the issues are greater than grammar…

Dressing For The Winter Dance Herb Eaton
My Friends,
aren’t we awaiting The Winter Dance,
the enchantment of an attending beauty
accompanying our follies and awkward gyrations
up marvelous stairs, isolated
from the cold?

My Friends,
aren’t we all a bit distorted, maybe nervous and convoluted,
doing a graceless dance
while arranging our new
dull and wrinkled layers?

My Friends,
won’t it be nice, The Dance Hall,
as our crinkling outer wraps are shed,
lead by an honor guard past our
pretty and petty pride,
thankful to be a living corsage
to serve Beauty.
My Friends,
isn’t it best to joyfully dance
until the tune ends?

Ruminating rather than conjuring, searching for an opportune moment to bring forth well-kept emotions, the anarchists have spread out in the reunion. Tables, the folding kind, have been set up in order to facilitate the collections, garnered from the dropped-off miscellany, presumably to make found-object art.

Some of the mostly older emotive types (post-dead and before the days of “found-object art”) have pulled up chairs and apparently expecting a Thanksgiving feast.

As you might presume, anarchists of bygone times have a tendency of being “old” (post-living) and beyond the daily need for food. But, as they are old, the topic of comforting food is constantly on their mind. And with it a need to demand – thicker stews. Apparently the ghostly and skeletal varieties have some hope of the stew adhering and regenerating life – if it were less watery. Thicker stew also has a class character, the higher the class the thicker the stew; and as many of the ancient artistics came from the upper crust, a thicker stew seems a rightful demand.

However, we have not completed a suitable commissary, and so, as much as this early winter might provoke the taste for thick stew; we have none to offer. And we have no servers, except for some of the younger (pre-dead) artists; many on-leave from restaurant jobs (so as to be part of the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture) and so they have serving skills. But probably they are “serving” for a moment, a socially acceptable moment, an opening, to push their emerging art, (as original as a fart from a shared pot of stew), into the milieu.

Social class of course is the determining factor of how one eats, more often than what one eats.

So if the post-dead anarchists want comfort food; conjuring superior thick contents in a soup bowl (empty to our eyes) – it works.

Thankfully conjured, by the condescension of being served…by their lessers.

Join us next Saturday to consider what is worth considering and deception.

Frost has sharped the chord of these days at the end of the middle season, stacked hierarchal: frost, some warmth, chilled darkness. The sun is now low, mellow, dropping over the horizon with the settling purple mist; putting the tent and crib in a minor key. Back in the day circus-bands filled our tent, now being reused for our reunion. Outdoors the winds have returned and so we are seeking to use this space more fully, even if the audience is largely a chilled mural painted warm.

We are trying to take notes, hand-writen on 3×5 cards, in order to record the dialogue here at the reunion. Our notes (meant for dialogue in short plays to be produced during this reunion) include a significant number of expressions beginning with, “Back in the day…” to which is added some proof-of-knowing utterance. “Back-in-the-day”… plus the ideal life as it should have been (or worse than it ever was). Enfant terribles and anarchists are apt to gesture widely about some unendurable disgrace “Back-In-The-Day!…”; remembering why they have those emotion bombs. Emotive’s convoluting sentences, history, logic structures, and interchanging superstitions, dramatized into whatever that “day” was. This seems like stuff for theater!

From the out-set (back in the day) we have been trying for a feeling of bon homme gentility, so that all can benefit while sharing this grand theater. , “back in the day…” expressions have introduced script ideas by generic geniuses from both sides of the grave, many concerning social more than theatrical roles.

Some,”Back in the day…”, expressors emanate expressions so droll as to embrace condescending sympathies. Some point a terrible infant’s attitude toward hierarchies and embrace the caustic use of words and postures.

As it is, “back in the day ” theatricals will be here this winter. Now, posturing for character parts in the unwritten theatricals, anarchists try (to a degree) to be nonchalant and disinterested (cool).

To whit, attempting to influence discreetly; so as not to be stuck in a previously discarded drama from, “Back in the day…”

Fodder (horse food of the coarse variety) various leaves and stems some grains and grasses, digested. It’s the fuel to propel a horse ( and presumably an anarchistic unicorn). Its’ the sole ingredient of horse-puky, depositing nutrients back in the soil, and, an attractive home for flies and the attention of dung beetles.

Pundits, emotional fodder feeders, have been giddy servers of hysteria. The vulgar and the purists here at the tent have gobbled it up: diatribes to return the anarchistic emotives a greatness here at the reunion of enfant terribles. We thought that the anarchical enfantterribles would remain expressive individuals, unaffected by, and even resisting, nativists groupings. But deposits of the pundit’s fodder provide nutrients for young men and giddiness for old-school women, toady breeders for the bullys, remnants of the golden-age of clans, mother trolls of the shadow-world.

Once again the punditic heralds bluster calls for others to risk their valiantry (and lives and money) on the fields honor is unified by an incessant “drumming”. Rim-shot/rim-shot/rim-shot/rim-shot—those driving snaps on the edge! There, wap! wap! wap! the pundits coarse syntax obliterates personal melody and destroys by distraction any moving harmony. The reunion of anarchists promises individual artistics doing their own thinking, but alas, the narrow clan is more tempting in its’ call to belligerence and irresponsibility, and slow-moving coup d’tat.

If today we view military as missiles, microbes, drones, and hackers we still need the pundit’s fuel to commend our valiantry to actions (with costs no higher than a violent video game?).

Since art lost its’ nativity emotion (when artists freed artists), that nativist-will seems to return when the driving-drumming-staccato blares ever louder; obliterating artists in favor of emotives and dull forces, and pundits.

Yorick mocks the pundits speaking for the dead. Nonetheless marching re-commences among pundit-fodder, awaiting a bit of fame or infamy.

Outside of the tent we are running out of color, at least the dramatically named ones. We are moving into the drawing, structural season. The surface is grids, roads and the limits of property. Grids, the gift of the ancients, are favored structures by most artists and farmers (satellite x and y’s coordinate their behemoths). All is moving toward tumbled carved blacks, dirty and dusty whites rubbed and overlaid, linear leggy weedy gray gestures; some dull, some sharp.

Our tent, close to the path of America’s Mother Road, is holding a gathering of venerable artistics. The gathering of artistic enfant terribles and the subsequent museum, is an new idea for the prairie and a type of hope for the artistics. Some may appear a bit weird or disconcerting, like our tent out on the cornland. But the prairie is not a strange or weird land, even stripped of its’ green, even with the behemoths (the combine harvesters) devouring endless acres of grain. This place is visually sensible, a continuity with subtle ornamentation; old and new grain elevators developed and discarded due to technical (financial) reasons, various outbuildings and houses, and winds that blow in and blow out. Things change.

Did you ever hear that 1920’s song, “How yeh goin’ to keep ’em down on the farm, once the’ve seen Paree?”

Bring in some art? Some dancing girls? Some champagne instead of beer? Paint the wind turbines rouge, add some blinking lights, reopen Rt.66?

Well, maybe, fewer people are now attached to harvesting (so no one in the houses), so Autumn Festivals are sponsored on social media to retrieve those who went to “Paree”, or even Peoria. Some steal stalks or ears for decoration (they are of paltry singular value but stealing less in town could get one shot). However the golden ears bring up primal agrarian memories.

A few visitors may show up at the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture for some color, but, than again, ” How yeh gonna get um ta pay for art, once the’ve seen for free?”

Getting corn and art for free is one thing, what about power…next Saturday.